GOD HATES HEAVY METAL: THE MILKING

THE MILKING

One night, the milk turned blue.

At first, no one noticed. The cows still grazed, the barn lights flickered in their usual rhythm, and the machines kept churning their daily song. But that morning, right after Dale posted his first meme to his Facebook group, Man Tip of the Day, he poured the morning’s yield into the cooler. At first, he thought he’d tied one on too hard the night before. But after inspecting it closer, he realized the milk shimmered like antifreeze under the fluorescents—thicker than it should be. There was a sweet yet pungent smell as he took a whiff.

He touched it. That was the first mistake. Then he tasted it. As weird as it smelled, it tasted like it was infused with honey. He licked his lips and tasted it again.

Dale went about his day, checking on the milk every so often to see if the color had changed. He noticed he felt good—better than usual. His neck injury, the one that had bothered him since he was eighteen, when that coward Jay Winters smashed him with a bat, was gone.

That night, Dale dreamed of rings—perfect, concentric circles of light, spinning above his barn. In the dream, the cows walked out of their pens one by one, docile as lambs, into the beam. He watched himself follow, mouth open, eyes glassy, as a voice like a feedback loop whispered in his head: The milk is the memory.

He woke just after 3 a.m., soaked in sweat, his mouth sticky with that same sour-sweet taste. Wide awake now, he got up, grabbed a beer, lit a cigarette, and walked outside. Dale flipped on the barn lights and looked out across his field at the gigantic circular marks burned into the grass. He knew then this hadn’t been a dream.

By the third day, none of the cows would eat. They just stood there, twitching slightly, all facing the same direction—the barn. The milking room.

Their milk was an even brighter blue now—thicker, almost gooey. Dale knew he couldn’t tell anyone. They’d think he was crazy. So he brought in the vet.

She didn’t make it past the first cow. Upon inspection, it gave birth to a strange, mutated stillborn calf with two heads and six eyes—a hideous beast with a rancid stench. As she got closer to examine it, a long tendril lashed out from the calf’s anus and slapped her across the neck. She stumbled back, crying out.

Her eyes rolled back, her body seized, and she collapsed against the doorframe. Dale tried to drag her out, but the stench was so acrid it burned his sinuses and made his eyes water. He vomited as the vet foamed a blue, milky substance from her mouth. Gagging and coughing, Dale felt his eyes swell as the burning intensified. He realized the barn was trembling—something was vibrating beneath the concrete floor.

He left her where she fell and ran.

Panicking, his throat, nose, and eyes felt scorched, like he’d been pepper sprayed by something conjured in the hubs of hell. The only thing he could think to do was run for the shower and wash it off—whatever it was. He cried and prayed under the hot water, begging for the nightmare to end. After a half hour, the pain began to subside. He stepped out, wrapped a towel around his waist and another around his head, then collapsed onto his bed.

That night, the lights returned—so bright they punched him awake like a flash grenade. He ripped off the towel, threw on jeans, a t-shirt, and boots, and ran outside.

He watched from the field as the barn pulsed like a living thing, its roof glowing with rings of impossible geometry. The cows moved in single file, walking straight into the beam. One by one, they were lifted upward—silent, compliant, disassembling into blue mist before reaching the craft.

Dale couldn’t move. He was frozen. He could think, but even his eyes were paralyzed. He screamed in his mind, but his mouth couldn’t deliver the terror his brain was experiencing. The panic overwhelmed him. His body shut down, and he passed out—standing upright, eyes wide open.

He awoke in the grass at dawn, soaked in dew. The barn was empty. No cows. No vet. No mutated calf carcass. Only a single stainless steel pail in the center of the milking room, filled to the brim with that glowing, humming milk.

A voice like a feedback loop whispered in his head: The milk is the memory.

He drank it. The whole thing. He had to. It had spoken to him.

Now, he remembers everything—the harvests, the conversions, the reason they came here first, before the cities. The cows weren’t chosen by accident. They were preparing the vessel.

And Dale? Dale is fine. 

He knows his place now. He’s part of the process.

He awaits, mouth twitching into something like a smile, for the next shipment.